Conclusion Part B

And the Winner Is…

Ahsha hurried up, breathless, and dumped her backpack on the floor.
“Sorry I’m late, Mr. Brock.” She gasped. “I had fourth period over at Bryn Mawr, today.”
I shook my head reassuringly. “Don’t worry about.” I told her. “Sarah and I haven’t been able to find a CD player yet anyway.”
She glanced around at everyone in the room and frowned.
“What are we going to do, then?” She asked worriedly.
“I guess I’ll have to try and hum very loudly.” I responded, jokingly.
She gave me her “Mr. Brock!” glare, and I held up a hand to ward off any retort.
“Seriously,” I said, “the worst that happens is I’ll have to clap or bang on a lab counter to make some kind of noise. Why don’t you start getting everyone organized? We’re going to need to move all the tables out of the way to make a lot of room for this activity.”
“Okay.” She replied, nodding, and gestured to Jane and Ann Margaret, who were standing nearby. “Everybody, we need to get the tables moved out of the way and to put all the chairs in a big circle facing out.”
“Success, Mr. Brock!” I heard as Sarah entered the room, toting a borrowed radio.
“Hallelujah.” I murmured and took it from her to plug into one of the lab stations.
She clapped her hands to get everyone’s attention and started the meeting.
“Welcome everybody to another exciting year of TTLG!” Sarah announced. “For any of you who don’t know us yet, I’m Sarah, and this is Ahsha, and we’re your co-presidents.”
“And we’d like to thank you all for coming to today’s club open house,” continued Ahsha, taking over smoothly. “As you know, Ms. Waters is having the school’s clubs trying something different this year, and you’ll be signing up after the first cycle of them so that everyone can have a chance to visit the ones they want and check them out. Therefore, we’ve planned an activity today which we hope will give you a good idea of what we do in TTLG and make you want to come back for more.”
Both Sarah and Ahsha looked in my direction, then, and Ahsha spoke. “Mr. Brock?”
I stood up to explain what they would be doing and studied the room.
“We’re going to play musical chairs this afternoon.” I informed them. “Only we’re going to play it twice using a different set of rules each time.”
The new girls all looked bemused, and I could tell they were all thinking: Huh? What does musical chairs have to do with a philosophy club? The regulars, though, all smiled in anticipation.
“The first time, we’re going to play using the traditional rules.” I said. “So, if you’ll all take your places….”
I gestured at the circle of chairs, and the girls all hopped up from where they were sitting and gathered around it. There was some giggling and snickering and some playful pushing and shoving as they jockeyed for the “best” spot, and when they were ready, I turned on the radio.
The students began to circle, still laughing and joking, and I let the music play for a full a minute this first time to get everybody lulled into a sense of complacency. Then, I switched it off, and the dynamics, of course, changed quickly as everyone fought for a chair.
Julie was the first out, and she glared as everybody else laughed and congratulated themselves.
I shrugged, sympathetically and told her, “Grab a seat on a table. Everybody else, stand up!”
They did, and I started the music again.
Twenty-two, of course, became twenty-one, became twenty, and so on. The pushing and shoving got worse, the joviality disappeared, each round’s loser left cursing or glaring as she took her seat on the sidelines, and finally, we were down to the last two, Jane and Emily. They circled like warriors as the music played, and everyone else had taken sides.
“Get her Julie!” urged Peale and Ann Margaret.
“You can take her, Emily,” shouted another table.
I stopped the music.
Jane body-checked Emily as if the Stanley Cup were on the line and grabbed the remaining seat. Emily was caught by the table full of people she flew into and spun around to confront her rival.
“Damn it, Jane! It’s only a game!” She exclaimed angrily. Then she glanced quickly at me. “Sorry, Mr. Brock.”
I smiled to let her know the cursing was forgiven under the circumstances, and as Jane stood and preened, I acknowledged her.
“Jane, you’re our winner.” I declared. “Now everybody, we need to get all the chairs back in a circle again for our second round.”
They did and then turned to me expectantly.
“Here’s the deal.” I told them. “We’re going to play again, only this time, the rule is that when a chair is removed, everybody stays, no one is ejected, and you all have to take a seat somehow.”
There were some nonplussed looks directed at me. But they all got in position, and when the music stopped this time, they all stood around for a moment looking at one another. Finally, various girls signaled to each other to have a seat, and Sarah volunteered to be the one to sit on someone’s lap.
“Okay. Everybody up.” I instructed. “Take a chair away, and let’s start again.”
The chair was removed; the circle tightened, and I turned on the radio.
They marched for about thirty seconds this round, and already, it was amazing to watch the new dynamics the rule change had introduced. The girls were chatting again, already strategizing who would sit on who’s lap this time, and as the rounds progressed and the chairs were removed, different leaders stepped up to take control and guide the sitting process, until at long last there was only the one chair and two column of girls seated on one another’s laps, resting on Sarah’s knees.
“Good job.” I told them, and everyone cheered and stood up, thinking the game was over. “No.” I said. “There’s one last round this time.”
They looked befuddled as I walked over to remove the last chair.
“This time, when the music stops, you have to all sit down with no chair at all.” I informed them. “And without touching the floor!” I added.
I only let the music play a few seconds since the marching was no longer the point, and when I stopped it, they all stood around discussing the situation.
“Any ideas, anybody?” asked Ahsha.
“Hey, I remember we did something like this at my church youth retreat once,” declared Jane. “What we need to do is all gather in a circle…” She walked them through it, and they all began to gather in a tight circle.
“Oh, I get it!” exclaimed Sarah.
Finally, backs tightly bunched against fronts and hands clasped on hips, they had Jane count it off. “On three.” She said. “One, two, three, sit!” Leaning back slowly, each sat on the other until the entire group was one large seated circle.
“And done!” I proclaimed. “Everybody up and take a real seat for us to debrief.”
There were a couple of “high fives” and much laughter as the girls all now stood up from the circle, and I waited patiently for each of them to take a seat in one of the chairs. When they had, I nodded at Ahsha and Sarah.
“So what we like to do in this club is activities like these,” said Ahsha, “and then we talk about what they mean.”
There were some “ah, ha!” looks on the new faces.
“And I’ll get us started.” Ahsha continued. “What do you think the two ways of playing the game might symbolize?”
One of the new girls responded. “Well, they obviously could represent the different ways we can live our life.”
The others all nodded and murmured agreement, and Sarah responded.
“Okay,” she said. “Then how did it feel to live the first way?”
“Crappy.” Ann Margaret replied. “I felt all stressed out and stopped thinking about anything but getting a chair before anyone else could…and you were the worst, Jane.” She said, pointing.
“Yeah, you were seriously out of control, there.” Emily agreed, and several other girls all nodded.
“It’s a game!” Jane defended, blushing. “You’re supposed to try and win.”
“Are you supposed to try and win?” I interjected. “Or were you supposed to try and not lose?”
“What do you mean?” She asked, puzzled.
“Look at both games.” I said, addressing everyone. “What counts as winning in the first version and what counts as winning in the second?”
Another new girl, Chelsea, responded. “Well, in the first way we played, winning was getting a chair.” She said. “In the second one….” Her voice trailed off, and she looked perplexed.
“Ah!” I responded. “What does count as winning in the second one?”
They all sat thinking for a moment, and then Ahsha replied.
“Solving the problem.” She stated firmly. “Figuring out how everybody can have a seat.”
“Okay,” I answered. “Then can you lose the second game?”
“Yes and no,” said Peale from across the room. “If you don’t find a way for everyone to sit, then everyone loses. At least in the first game, only one person really loses, yourself.”
“Oh really?!” Emily reacted. “How many of you think there was only one loser when Jane was the only one left?”
There were some mixed murmurs of both agreement and disagreement, with little side conversations began to break out around the room, and when even Ahsha and Sarah started to quibble with each other, I interrupted.
“How many people think Jane actually lost?” I asked over the buzz.
That quieted everyone, and again, they all sat thinking for a while.
“I do.” Someone finally replied very quietly, and the girls all turned to look at Jane in shock.
“Jane, why do you think that?” I asked her, working actively to keep my tone neutral and not nod my head in approval.
“Because everybody hated me at the end.” She answered. “I ‘won.’ But I was all alone. In the other game, we were all together.” She turned to Emily. “And let’s face it, winning the first time wasn’t much fun.”
Then I did nod my head as Jane and I looked at each other in understanding for a moment, and I could tell from my peripheral vision that expressions of “oh!” were starting to pop up around the room.
“So if the games are analogies for life, why is it that we almost always seem to play the first one?” I asked, looking around the room.
There was a pause, and then Ahsha spoke. “Because we grow up in it; it’s all we’ve ever known.”
“Okay,” I replied, gesturing for her to go on.
“Also, the first way is a lot easier to play.” She stated. “It’s a lot harder, Mr. Brock, for everybody to win.”

The Reason to Choose the Hard

I want to shift gears here toward the end and be a little less theoretical and scholarly in my tone and a little more intimate and personal in my approach, and I want to start with the word or idea that I’m confident is on the mind of any reader who has made it this far:  Hard.  It’s a term I haven’t used much to this point.  But anyone who has processed the preceding ten chapters has got to be wondering by now:  who in their right mind would work as hard as it is going to take even to attempt to accomplish everything that I have challenged needs to happen for our schools to become truly functional again? My readers who are fellow teachers are also going to add:  you forgot the mountains of paperwork, the endless grading, the lower pay, and the serious amount of time it takes to plan even a mediocre lesson.  Add in the sense of isolation and frequent lack of administrative support for any learner-centered, active classrooms you might try to create in the first place,⁵ and yes, the word we all are looking for is “hard.”

What is more, compounding all this “hard” is the reality that like parenting, there is no handbook for how to teach well (that there might be is part of the whole Cartesian myth).  Being authentically engaged requires actions for which there are no preset guidelines:  divulging who you are, setting boundaries, relinquishing center stage, controlling bias….  The list goes one, and like learning to parent, the only way to figure out how to do it is simply to “study it for yourself.  Deal with it yourself.  There are no curriculum plans or lesson plans.  Invent your own way of dealing with it.”⁶ Good teaching is just doing it–creating from scratch whatever is necessary to succeed at the task at hand–and there is no way around it:  all that doing is just plain hard.

Which brings me back to the question we’re all thinking, even if we’re not saying it aloud:  given how demanding this profession is, what could possibly compel anyone to become a teacher—let alone work hard enough to be good at it?

The answer, I think, lies in that world, “compel.”  Educators with authentic engagement feel compelled to teach the way they do.  They feel compelled to create classrooms where real learning happens.  They feel compelled to engage students with their full humanity.  They feel compelled to bring their “deep gladness” to a world in need.  They feel compelled to do these things and more because they understand that “no punishment anyone lays on you could possibly be worse than the punishment you lay on yourself by conspiring in your own diminishment.”⁷ Good teachers know that no matter what the cost to them to be authentically engaged in their schools, the personal price they would pay to do otherwise is infinitely worse.  Therefore, they choose the hard because they have to; the alternative is simply unthinkable for them.

 And here’s why.  At the National Teacher Hall of Fame, there are some display cases, and in some of those cases are some letters:

…I learned that failure was ok.  It didn’t mean I wasn’t smart enough or good enough, it just meant I wasn’t there yet.  This is one of the most valuable lessons I have ever learned.  I learned that understanding took hard work and dedication.  You have never brushed off any of my many questions; you embraced my curiosity and encourage us all to search for a deeper meaning…

…then came some of the best advice I have ever received.  It was our first class after winter break, and we were all standing around talking before class started.  Someone said, “Now I can’t wait for spring break!” and you looked up from whatever you were doing and said, “Don’t wish your life away.”  We all looked up in awe as we processed what you said, and then 30 seconds later the conversations continued and class started soon after.  I still think about those 5 words almost every day.  Whenever I find myself wishing for the day to be over so that I can go home, or waiting patiently for the weekend, or for summer, or for the next year, I stop myself and think about what you said.  “Don’t wish your life away,” I tell myself, as I try to slow down and live in the moment…

…one experience with you will always be solidified in my mind, however.  When I came to you and asked for your help in the interview process for my scholarship, I never expected the kind and extent of help that I was going to receive.  After talking with you multiple times and doing practice interviews, I was extremely prepared.  Your advice was invaluable…and I know I would not have gotten the scholarship if it hadn’t been for you…

…you have taught me so much more than just material.  It was your teaching and guidance, compassion and morality, that has shown me an example of how to be a good human in this world.  Thanks to you, I have become a harder worker, deeper thinker, a better friend, and a better student.  You have taught me how to be accountable for my responsibilities, and how to persevere under difficult circumstances.  You have taught me the importance of showing compassion and being a bigger person…this year has been one of the most challenging years of my life, and I am eternally grateful for the kindness and understanding you have shown me.  Thank you for believing in me even when I did not really believe in myself…I know that wherever my life takes me, and whatever I end up doing, I will be a better person for having met you, and will never stop learning, and never stop trying to use my powers for good….

As is no doubt obvious, these letters are from students, and while it might be ideal that these could be the letters of any teacher, anywhere, my point in sharing what I once read is not to aggrandize or to extol any specific individual.  Nor is my point that these should somehow be letters to which every teacher should aspire to receive.  No, my point in sharing what somebody’s students once wrote is my act of hope that the quality of any child’s education would be such to begin with that he, she, or they would be unable to single out a specific individual teacher to write such a letter to in the first place. 

That is the ultimate obligation for all of us in education; that is the ultimate purpose for authentic engagement in the classroom; and that is the ultimate reason for all of us who teach to choose the hard.  These letters serve to remind us what education can be, sometimes is, and fundamentally ought to be for all our children everywhere, and I offer them now, here at the end, simply to recall for us what is truly at stake in education.  As former Yale scholar, Seymour B. Sarason challenges, “the question is not whether most teachers can climb their Mt. Everest the way [the best] have climbed theirs.  The question is how far up that Mt. Everest most teachers [decide to] climb.”⁸

And until each of us in education chooses the highest ascent possible—to light “candles” against the “darkness” with every lesson taught, every learning embodied, and every student known—our schools will continue to fail to become the authentic centers for teaching and learning we so earnestly need them to be.  My hope in offering all that I have with this project is that we will begin to change things for the better.